


Seven Deaths

by UnwrittenCurse



Category: Arc of a Scythe Series - Neal Shusterman
Genre: Canon Compliant, Community: HPFT, Consensual Sex, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Lost Love, Missing Scene, Spoilers, Star-crossed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 15:21:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15665907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnwrittenCurse/pseuds/UnwrittenCurse
Summary: Before she was Scythe Curie, she was Susan.Before he was Scythe Faraday, he was Gerald.And before they were sentenced to die seven deaths, they were in love.





	Seven Deaths

 

 

**3 April 2092**  
  
Susan witnessed her first gleaning on a sunny Thursday afternoon.  
  
She had never seen someone die before. To be fair, neither had most of the population. In the age of immortality, when technological and scientific advancements could cure any ailment, only Scythes truly understood what it meant to die--even more so than the people they gleaned, who were alive one moment and gone the next. Dying had become easier and faster than falling asleep; as such, the gleaned had no time to contemplate their undoing. Only the Scythes, those tasked with keeping earth’s population within limits, regularly contemplated the Great Unknown.  
  
But as Mr. Teague’s body slid comfortably to the pavement--not that Mr. Teague noticed, as he was dead--Susan felt, for perhaps the first time in her 17 years on earth, a flickering of urgency.  
  
There was a less than 3% chance that she would die in the next millennium. She was young and she skidded under the radar--an average student with average grades in an average town in MidMerica. Each day all but mirrored the last; a constant revolving door of family meals, school, and work. Very little could disrupt the doldrum of the everyday, as The Thunderhead governed with precision, according to its programming. Very few managed to break the law these days, and no one really needed to. Immortality had done wonders to stave off human nature’s impetus for causing trouble.  
  
Back in the mortal age, the average human had only 80 odd years to accomplish their dreams, and the constant threat of The End hanging over their mortal heads. But Susan… she hadn’t even dreamed up a dream yet. She had plenty of-- What? Time? It was impossible to conceptualize and therefore impossible to waste.  
  
But perhaps that’s what Mr. Teague had thought, too, before he saw Junior Scythe Faraday slinking towards him on an otherwise normal Thursday afternoon, full of stoic pride.  
  
And the weight of it all--of watching the vibrancy rush from the man’s eyes, of Scythe Faraday catching his dead weight and lowering his body respectfully to the ground, of realizing the language to describe this feeling left in the wake of death didn’t exist anymore--made tears spring to Susan’s eyes.  
  
She tried to wipe them away with the sleeve of her jacket, unnoticed, but Scythe Faraday shot her a furtive glance and nodded once to acknowledge her reaction. She looked away, blinking twice, and he was gone--presumably to alert the family of the gleaned.  
  
Susan walked home with the sudden and overwhelming desire to _live_.

 

* * *

  
  
**8 April 2092**  
  
“You-- _What_?”  
  
Susan felt her heart begin to decelerate as the truth burrowed under her skin and spread out in tiny shockwaves. Scythe Faraday wasn’t here to glean her; he had come to invite her on as an apprentice.  
  
The truth wasn’t much better than the alternative, but it did make the air feel a little less like water, though she was still drowning in it. She felt the warmth of her nanites flooding her veins as they worked to re-balance her brain chemistry and ease her discomfort.  
  
To Scythe Faraday’s credit, his expression showed not a hint of judgment. He gave her space to consider his invitation and accepted her reaction--all shades of it--in stride.  
  
Thankfully, her parents weren’t home from work yet. Scythe Faraday must have known that and chosen to drop in when he would be least conspicuous; at least, that was her assumption based on circulating gossip. Supposedly, he wasn’t the type to make a scene by barging in during a family meal. She imagined her mother would’ve fainted on the spot.  
  
“Why me?” she asked, finally, looking up from her seated position at the kitchen table. Scythe Faraday stood several feet from her, hands clasped, the edge of his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly. Before he could respond, she added, “I mean, what makes you think I want to kill for a living?”  
  
“ _Glean_ ,” he corrected calmly.  
  
“What’s the difference? Taking a life is taking a--”  
  
“There is a world of difference,” Scythe Faraday interrupted. “And you know it.”  
  
“I--”  
  
“I saw your tears at Mr. Teague’s gleaning,” he said, his tone softening. “Most people are just relieved it’s not _them_ being gleaned. It’s not often that I see-- especially at a stranger’s--” He let the sentence trail off. Susan waited for its resolution, but Scythe Faraday was clearly done. He was waiting, now, for her answer.  
  
“I didn’t know you could have an apprentice as a Junior Scythe,” Susan wondered aloud. “Aren’t you a bit… inexperienced?”  
  
Scythe Faraday’s stoicism crumbled and he let out a hearty laugh. In that moment, Susan considered that the honorable Scythe may not be quite as cold as she had imagined, that perhaps his stiff posture was all a facade. She found herself smiling at the thought.  
  
Susan looked up, catching Scythe Faraday’s eyes, and felt her cheeks flush.  
  
“I went through all the same training as any other Scythe,” he responded. “You might say that my ideas are as fresh as my Scythe’s robes, while others are becoming jaded with age.”  
  
“I didn’t mean--”  
  
Scythe Faraday stepped forward and claimed the seat next to Susan.  
  
“Your boldness in the company of a Scythe is refreshing,” he admitted. “I’m used to people running and hiding when I enter a room. It’s a lonely life, though it has its rewards.”  
  
Susan exhaled slowly, nodding. She hadn’t yet decided on a career path (though she was set to graduate in June), but joining the Scythedom? It had never crossed her mind. Only a small fraction of the population--way less than 1%--was ever offered an apprenticeship, and even fewer were robed as Scythes. Her being gleaned was more likely than her becoming a Scythe.  
  
Scythe Faraday’s offer was meant to be an honor, but Susan could feel herself preparing to reject it, to turn down the promise of immunity--of knowing that she and her family would never be gleaned--as well as the myriad of other rewards, like never wanting for anything, like becoming a god among men.  
  
None of it was worth it, though. Not when you were tasked with deciding who would live and who would die, while you carried on living under the burden of the all the souls you’d gleaned.  
  
“I respect you for what you do,” Susan began slowly, “but I couldn’t do it. Take lives for a living, I mean. Isn’t it… suffocating?”  
  
Scythe Faraday smiled his most brilliant smile yet. He took Susan’s hands in his.  
  
“But don’t you understand, Susan?” he said. “Those who don’t want to be Scythes are the only ones who should.”

 

* * *

  
  
**3 October 2092**  
  
Susan wiped the sweat from her brow as she turned to face Faraday. The sun scorched the lawn and she dipped in and out of the shadow of trees, breathing in the coolness of the shade while keeping her focus on her mentor as he reminded her, yet again, that bokatar was as much a mental game as it was physical.  
  
They circled each other, their arms up, knees bent. Susan inhaled the sharp scent of grass as she moved, waiting him out, hoping he would get impatient and make a sloppy advance. She’d force him into a vulnerable position and then strike.  
  
In her six months as Faraday’s apprentice, Susan had learned much about the art of killcraft. He had trained her in weaponry, in hand-to-hand combat, in the ethics of gleaning. He had coached her on how to meet her quota and how to navigate the battle between the Old Order and the New Order (two factions within the Scythedom who had opposing views on how to glean). He’d divulged his theory that gleaning was a way to move society forward by ridding it of wickedness and corruption.  
  
Faraday had pushed her to her limits. Just last month, one wrong move with a machete had punctured her jugular and rendered her deadish. They’d postponed her training for a week and a half as she recuperated at a revival center.  
  
And all the while, she felt Faraday pulling her in, like a magnetic field. She was helpless, like a stuck fly. His ideas changed her, inspired her. He was a visionary.  
  
A visionary who always beat her in bokatar.  
  
Just as she expected, Faraday lashed out, swinging his hand at her neck in an attempt to disable her. The move was sloppy, and she easily deflected by thrusting an arm out. He hit her elbow instead and she pushed him away, smirking as her adrenaline surged, making her dizzy. Just as she was about to take advantage by swinging a leg out to disrupt his footing, she felt a sturdy kick square to the ribs, where she had left herself open after deflecting his blow.  
  
“Ugh,” she wheezed, sinking to her knees and holding her side. Her pain nanites kicked in immediately, working to numb the pain. But they couldn’t fix her bruised ego.  
  
“I could read your mind in your expression, Susan,” Faraday said, holding out a hand to help her up, ever the gentleman. “You were waiting me out, hoping I’d act rashly. You left yourself open, mentally and physically. It was easy to take advantage.”  
  
Susan pushed his hand away. “But I blocked your advance,” she said, standing on her own. “That counts for something, doesn’t it?”  
  
In the blink of an eye, Faraday swept her feet out from under her. She landed flat on her back, gasping for air. Quickly kneeling beside her, Faraday pressed the length of his arm against her chest, holding her down. She squirmed and wriggled in vain.  
  
“No,” he said, his face inches from hers. She felt his hot breath on her cheek. “Your final test at conclave will be thorough. You cannot expect to be robed as a Scythe should you reveal any weakness to the High Blade.”  
  
Susan nodded, breathless from the fall as well as Faraday’s proximity.  
  
Faraday stood, extending a hand to help her up. This time, she accepted his help. She brushed the grass from her clothes as he appraised her. His gaze made her shiver despite the burning heat.  
  
He nodded once, sternly, and began walking towards the house.  
  
“We’re done for today,” he dictated, turning back only once to say, “Come join me for dinner.”

 

* * *

  
  
**30 January 2093**  
  
Susan pressed her back against the wall, exhaling deliberately. She stood outside Scythe Faraday’s door in the dim evening light, counting her heartbeats, gathering her courage.  
  
She had been dreaming of this for weeks now; it had all but consumed her. As they ate breakfast together, discussing the importance of gleaning with compassion, she imagined his lips on hers. As they practiced bokatar, exchanging blows, she imagined crawling into his bed. She imagined him slipping out of his Scythe’s robes, exposing acres of pearlescent skin and taut muscle. She imagined his hands on her.  
  
Would his touch be rough? Tender? Would he lose himself to his carnal desires or paint her with his fingertips like an artist?  
  
Susan bit her lip.  
  
Six times she had stood outside his room like this, contemplating opening the door and giving herself fully to Honorable Scythe Faraday. He wasn’t only her mentor; he was her north star. He filled her head with wisdom and her heart with dreams. Surely he saw her as more than an apprentice--as his _equal_ , as someone worthy to glean by his side.  
  
She knew the Commandments forbade fraternizing with a fellow Scythe--not in those exact words, and perhaps there was room for interpretation, but the warning remained.  
  
“Thou shalt kill,” she whispered into the dark, reciting the first of ten Commandments. She closed her eyes, moving on to the second: “Thou shalt kill with no bias, bigotry, or malice aforethought.” She continued on, slowly, methodically, until she reached the ninth, where she paused.  
  
_Thou shalt have neither spouse nor spawn._  
  
“But why?” she had asked, months before, when Faraday first introduced her to the Scythe Commandments. “That seems awfully restrictive. Having a partner--a family--seems like a good idea for Scythes. You know, someone to come home to. To help you shoulder the burden.”  
  
Faraday shook his head sadly.  
  
“The life of a Scythe is one that can only be understood from the inside,” he told her. “Do yourself a favor, Susan, and cut all ties.”  
  
She remembered staring at him suspiciously, waiting for the punchline. But Faraday turned away from her, busying himself with cleaning his sword after an afternoon of thrashing at dummies to demonstrate various cleaving blows. He wasn’t joking; he rarely did.  
  
“I can’t!” she remembered protesting. “I’m an only child. I’m all my parents have!”  
  
“Your loved ones expect you to be someone else,” he continued without missing a beat, “but you have shed that skin. You have been born anew.”  
  
Susan opened her mouth to retort, but as she watched Faraday’s shoulders slump, his posture collapsing, she realized this was not the time to argue.  
  
“Turn your heart from the living,” he finished solemnly. “Turn it to the cause.”  
  
Now, standing outside his bedroom for the sixth time, she had come to understand his warning. She had watched dozens of men and women in their last moments as she accompanied Scythe Faraday on his gleanings. She had seen some accept their end with grace while others pleaded to be spared, their eyes wide, frenzied. She had seen daughters and sons weep savagely, had even witnessed an entire family gleaned because the intended had resisted (as per the Commandments). She couldn’t imagine returning home and talking to her mother about her gardening, all the while remembering the warm oozing feeling of someone else’s blood running between her fingers.  
  
But Faraday understood. He was the most compassionate Scythe she had ever met--not that she’d made it a habit to introduce herself to many Scythes. But he understood the weight of this life she was about to lead. And he understood _her_ , perhaps more so than anyone she’d ever met.  
  
In a moment of clarity, she cracked open Faraday’s door and slipped inside. She tread lightly, her heart fluttering as she turned to see Faraday sitting up in bed, the lamp on his nightstand glowing amber. He wore a simple white t-shirt and gray boxers; his Scythe robes, the only thing she had ever seen him in, hung on the closet door.  
  
He looked up at her, his face opening in surprise and then closing, hardening. The image of herself in his bed, the covers twisting into mountains around them, fizzled out in an instant.  
  
“I, uh--” she began, feeling her mistake in every inch of her body as she froze, horrified, in the middle of Scythe Faraday’s bedroom.  
  
He put down his journal and pen, appraising her.  
  
“I just came to see if you were done with your tea,” she invented, avoiding his eyes. “I can bring your mug to the kitchen.”  
  
Faraday pursed his lips. “I am perfectly capable of taking care of my own--”  
  
“Of course you are. Goodnight, sir.” She left his room, closing the door behind her and holding onto her chest as she ran, trying to hold in the sobs of humiliation.

 

* * *

  
  
**31 January 2093**  
_  
I fear I’ve made a dreadful mistake. An apprentice should never be chosen in haste, but I was foolish. I felt a need to impart all I know, all I’ve learned. I sought to increase the allies I have in the Scythedom who think as I do._

_She comes to my door at night. I hear her in the darkness, and can only guess her intentions. Only once did I catch her entering my room. Had I actually been asleep, who can say what she might have done?_

_I am concerned that she may mean to end me. She’s shrewd, determined, calculating, and I’ve taught her the many arts of killing far too well. Let it be known that if death befalls me, it is not the result of self-gleaning. Should my life be brought to an unexpected end, it will be her hand, not mine, that bears the blame._

  
\- from the gleaning journal of H. S. Faraday

 

* * *

  
**5 February 2093**  
  
They ate breakfast in silence that morning.  
  
Faraday asked another Scythe, a squirrely woman with a perpetual smirk, to stand in for him during bokatar practice.  
  
Susan read from her training materials as she ate lunch, alone.  
  
Dinner followed in the same vein; silence had swallowed their routine. The clanking of silverware grated on Susan’s already thin nerves. Though Faraday didn’t look up, she could sense him watching her, testing her. The meal felt like a performance though she had no idea what her part entailed.  
  
Finally, when the silence became too much, Susan opened her mouth and felt the confession pouring from her like water from a broken faucet.  
  
“I shouldn’t have come into your bedroom. That was an invasion of privacy and it won’t happen again. But I did it because I--I love you.” Faraday coughed brusquely. “No, don’t say anything. I know you don’t feel the same, but you made me feel like you did, with all your talk of the future and your closeness and your--your eyes. I thought you wanted me. I thought… God, it doesn’t matter what I thought, does it? Because I was wrong.”  
  
She wasn’t sure what she was expecting from Faraday, but it wasn’t the pure shock that was now written all over his face. His fork fell from his grasp, clattering against the tile as loudly as if a small explosion had gone off in the kitchen. He reached a hand up and placed it on the back of his neck. His eyes darted around the kitchen like fireflies in a jar.  
  
Why was he acting so surprised? He’d seen her in his bedroom, lovesick and desperate. He’d seen straight through her lie, straight through to the infatuation that saturated her stupid, teenage heart. Why else would he be acting so cold? Why else would he be making himself sparse?  
  
By the time Susan composed her thoughts, Faraday’s expression had softened. He was looking at her, now, with pity in his eyes. It made her want to vomit.  
  
“I forgive you, Susan,” he began. He straightened in his chair, pressed his napkin to his lips. “You were wrong, of course. I do not return your feelings, nor would I entertain the thought of a romance between myself and another Scythe as it is strictly forbidden.”  
  
Susan inhaled at the word “Scythe,” knowing that Faraday wouldn’t use the term loosely. He had every confidence she would pass her final test and be robed in two months’ time. Her chest burned. Only Faraday would compliment her in the same breath as he chastised her.  
  
“But I am grateful for your honesty,” he continued. “It is a quality that you would do well to hold onto.”  
  
Susan nodded.  
  
“Now, please tidy up and join me outside. We need to continue your study of poisons.”  
  
Faraday stood and swept outside, leaving Susan alone in the kitchen with her thoughts. She was grateful for the time to compose herself, and so she washed and rinsed the dishes by hand, letting her emotions settle with each scouring of the sponge.  
  
When she joined him outside, her jaw was set and her infatuation was pressed down into the farthest reaches of her being. Not gone. Just not _here_. Not _now_.

 

* * *

 

**21 September 2114**

 

When she saw him on the steps of conclave, she felt a stirring of the old infatuation in her gut, but it had been tempered by time--twenty years’ worth. So when he approached her to shake her hand for perhaps the first time in a decade, she smiled and wished him well.

He, in turn, congratulated her on her reputation as “Miss Massacre,” gained through her (controversial) mass gleaning of the remaining corrupt politicians from mortal times. She shrugged, not willing to admit that she had acted in haste. She had, after all, broken the second Commandment, though it had been overlooked as most of the world was ready to be rid of any link to the shattered government of the mortal age.

She was also not willing to admit that she had done it for him. It was his idea that had inspired her-- _his_ desire to rid the world of evil in order to forge a new path forward.

Instead, she thanked him for his interest and they parted ways congenially.

Once out of his sight, she breathed a sigh, thankful he had not asked her why she had chosen Marie Curie as her patron historic. She would’ve invented a reason, of course. Anything not to divulge that she had chosen her name to match his. Faraday and Curie, two groundbreaking scientists and chemists. Two luminaries, the pair of them.

Scythe Curie took her seat amongst the crowds of her people, the killing angels, the Scythes of MidMerica.

 

* * *

 

**19 October 2140**

No one visited mortal art museums in the age of immortality, though the museums stayed open, preserving paintings and sculptures and exhibits curated by mortal artists who knew what it meant to feel pain and grief and joy in turn. It was hard for the immortal consumer to understand these silly, _mortal_ emotions, and thus, the halls remained virtually empty.

Scythe Curie took advantage, often coming to sit alone and ponder, ensconced in marble tile and sweet, sweet silence. She didn’t always think about death. Sometimes she thought about the most humane methods of gleaning. Sometimes she thought about how to reason with the New Order (there were whispers of lobbying for more mass gleanings as a way to fulfill quota). And sometimes she thought about her parents, who had been all too ready to cast her aside for an eternity of immunity, for the promise of evading The Unknown.

So, as it turned out, she _did_ always think about death. Or life. But as a Scythe, the two concepts seemed to bleed into one, as she made a living by killing.

She was so caught up in her thoughts, and so accustomed to sitting uninterrupted, that she didn’t notice Scythe Faraday approaching until he sat down beside her wearing a scarf and a knowing smile.

“Heavens!” she squeaked, bracing herself. “Haven’t you ever been told not to sneak up on a Scythe?”

Faraday laughed warmly. “Hello, Scythe Curie,” he said, resting a hand gently on her shoulder and then letting it fall to his lap.

Scythe Curie echoed his laugh as she took in Faraday’s appearance. He had clearly turned the corner recently, just as she had; he appeared to be in his mid-30’s again, his hair a deep chestnut brown just like she remembered it. He’d allowed a smattering of facial hair to grow along his jawline. And his eyes--though his body had been set back to a younger figure, his eyes held their age. As he gazed back at her, she could feel the depth of his wisdom as well as the years of history between them.

“What brings you here, Scythe Faraday?” she asked, grounding her feet to keep herself focused on the present. “Surely not the crowds.”

He shook his head, smiling. “I come for the art, actually,” he replied. “It helps me glean. If I can get into the headspace of a mortal man, I feel like I glean with more patience, more empathy. Immortality is too unfeeling. So I come here.” He extended an arm, gesturing to the paintings that hung on the walls, gathering dust.

Curie looked away, feeling humbled and inspired, as she often did in Faraday’s company.

“There is _something_ about mortal art,” she agreed. “It’s as if the artists leave their souls on the canvas. Like they’re living through their paint brushes.”

Faraday nodded. “I presume it’s because they knew that they would die, and so they had to leave pieces of their lives behind in their art,” he said.

Curie swallowed.

“It’s been too long,” she said quietly.

“It has,” Faraday agreed. He swiveled just slightly to face her more directly. “Speaking of too long,” he continued, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you these past… what, 50 years?”

“Yes?”

“Why did you agree to come on as my apprentice? You seemed so resistant at first, and then--” He stopped, then lifted his hands in a gesture of puzzlement, almost like a shrug.

“You were very persuasive,” she said with a smile.

Faraday laughed again. The sound echoed around the empty room, reminding Curie just how alone they were. Alone together.

“I’m not sure I can put it into words,” she continued, trying not to notice the charge in the air as Faraday leaned closer. “Something changed when I saw you glean Mr. Teague. I had never really thought about death before that day. It was something so remote that it barely registered. I woke up, wandered around blindly, and went to sleep--day after day after day. And then I saw you glean Mr. Teague and I suddenly realized that I was wasting something precious. I didn’t know what it was then and I’m still not sure I have it all figured out. But when you offered me the apprenticeship, I thought… _this is it_. Not immediately, of course. It took some time. But… there you have it.”

Faraday looked away, presumably lost in thought. Curie tucked a stray hair behind her ear as she waited for his response, suddenly acutely aware of their proximity. They hadn’t spoken like this since her apprenticeship. They moved in the same circles within the Scythedom, yes--but never alone, never like this.

“I’m sorry, Curie,” he said, finally. “I’m sorry that I brought you into this life. I wanted desperately to pass on my ideals, but I was young and naive and I didn’t stop to think about the burden I was placing on your back.”

“Nonsense,” Curie hissed. Faraday raised an eyebrow at her. “You have no reason to apologize.”

He nodded, smiling again. “All the same,” he replied, “I’m glad I did.”

And somehow, his apology felt like it covered much more than his regret over bringing her into this dark and burdensome fold. It felt like healing. It felt like a promise. It felt like an end and a beginning all rolled into one, and she knew from this point forward that they would no longer dance this dance of avoiding each other in plain sight.

“Would you care to see my favorite painting?” he asked suddenly, holding out his hand to Curie in a gesture of invitation.

“I’d love nothing more,” she responded, taking his hand as he led her through the halls of the art museum, alone but _alone together_.

 

* * *

 

**10 December 2141**

As Curie stepped onto Scythe Faraday’s doorstep, the snow falling in spiraling flurries and dusting the pavement, she thought back to holidays when she was young. There was a sacredness to those memories, a distinct sense of _before_. Here, in the _after_ , the holidays felt no different than the rest of the year save for the constant feeling of numbness at the tip of her nose.

The trajectory of her life had changed dramatically since becoming a Scythe, as had her relationship with Faraday. She would never forget the look he had given her--half proud, half pained--as she crossed the stage at conclave to receive her Scythe ring years ago. In the years that followed, they ran into each other occasionally. Through strained interactions she learned about his subsequent apprentices and he learned about her growing reputation as the Grande Dame of Death. There was always something left unsaid--for whose sake, Curie was never sure. But today, standing on his stoop as he opened the door with a brilliant smile, Curie knew things had changed once again, and her heart thumped in fearful excitement.

“Scythe Curie,” he greeted her, gesturing for her to step inside. “Always a pleasure.”

“I can’t stay, Scythe Faraday,” she responded, looking away. “Or, I shouldn’t. I have much to do. But I wanted to leave this book with you. I saw it in my stacks and was reminded of a conversation we’d had last year, about how mortal art contained pieces of the artists’ souls. This is a book on art theory, and it looks closely at the relationship between the artist and the art, as well as the part the viewer plays in the creation and consumption of the piece.”

Scythe Faraday accepted the book with interest. “Stimulating,” he replied, his eyebrows furrowing as he flipped the book over in his palms and read the summary on the back cover.

“Yes, yes,” Curie said, nodding. “Well, have a pleasant evening.”

“Curie,” Faraday echoed, glancing from the book to her face with narrowed eyes. “You must at least come in for a mug of tea. It’s freezing out there. And… did you walk?”

Curie shrugged. “You know I’m not a fan of publicars. They’re much too fast. I’d rather enjoy the scenery and my own thoughts. Besides, your house isn’t far.”

“Only 3.2 miles.” He winked, causing her heart to beat erratically, then pulled the door open even wider. “Come in, for heaven’s sake. What’s the rush? We are immortal, are we not?”

Curie conceded, stepping over the threshold and into the same home that she had shared with Faraday as mentor and mentee. She was struck immediately by the rich, warm scent of cinnamon. She sighed, taking it all in.

Faraday led her through the foyer and into the kitchen, where she took a seat-- _her_ seat--as he busied himself with the kettle. He was facing away from her, so she watched him with unbridled curiosity. When she was 17 and he was 22, she would watch him move like this. She would admire the lines of his shoulders, the tightness of his back and arms, sculpted by years of Scythe training. She bit her lip, remembering how he had become her whole world. How she had _craved_ him.

As foolish as she had been at 17 to allow herself to be overtaken by infatuation, she couldn’t blame her younger self for admiring the view. Faraday was a handsome man. Age had only increased his appeal, adding a calm confidence to his posture, a sense of self that commanded a room.

Curie shook her head; she knew better now.

His task complete, Scythe Faraday approached the table, a steaming mug of peppermint tea in each hand. Curie accepted one and immediately brought it to her nose, taking a deep breath of the cloyingly sweet steam.

“Your favorite, yes?” Faraday mused before taking a sip of his own tea.

“You remembered,” Curie replied.

“Some days I find it hard to forget,” Faraday admitted. “You were my first and, if I’m being honest, my favorite apprentice. You were cunning, determined--you presented me with a true challenge.”

Curie couldn’t stop herself from blushing. “You flatter an old woman,” she said, busying herself with her tea so as to avoid eye contact.

Faraday’s voice was gentle as he replied, “You don’t look like an old woman to me. You look almost as I remember you when you last stepped foot in this house.”

Curie laughed. “That’s entirely my fault, Scythe Faraday. I reset to 30 and it’s much too young. I miss the silver in my hair; it afforded me a certain respect."

“Ah, yes” was all Faraday said in response. It came out as a sigh.

The sky outside gradually darkened, bleeding from blue to orange to purple, as they sat and reminisced. Faraday laughed as Curie reminded him of the first and only time she had defeated him at bokatar; he said he could still remember the look of triumph in her eyes. They spoke of the philosophers they had studied, and Curie admitted that she had always admired his insistence on understanding what it meant to be human as a prerequisite for gleaning. They discussed the difficulty of being a Scythe. The loneliness. The discipline. And yet, the deep, abiding sense of duty.

Their half-empty mugs of tea grew cold as conversation stretched taut between them. The shadows lengthened. And something forgotten ignited in Scythe Curie’s chest.

“Did I ever tell you that I thought you meant to kill me the night you snuck into my room and asked for my mug?” Faraday confessed suddenly.

“You _what_?” Curie looked down at her hands. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or apologize profusely, so she aimed somewhere in the middle. “No, you haven’t. We haven’t spoken of that embarrassing night… until now.”

When she looked up again, Faraday’s expression had grown intense. His eyes were all over her face, as though memorizing every last detail, soaking her in. She bit her lip.

“Our connection was strong,” he continued. “Almost deadly. I assumed the worst, but you--”

“Please,” she whispered. “Don’t.”

“Curie.” His hand was on her chin now. He tilted her head up to meet his gaze. “I don’t think you know how much you’ve always meant to me.” His hot breath was on her face and she was 17 again--full of hope and adrenaline and desperately in love.

“I was stupid, Faraday,” she said, pulling away. “I wanted something I couldn’t have.”

Faraday paused, considering her. His hand remained in the air as if still cupping her chin.

“And now?” he said, his voice small.

“Do I still want you?” she asked, and he nodded. “I’ve always wanted you. But…”

“The 9th Commandment?”

“Yes.”

Scythe Faraday sighed, but he did not fall back. Instead, he moved from his chair to kneel before her, taking her hands in his. She let him. She let him hold her and look at her though tears welled in her eyes, though her brokenness was on display.

“Can I tell you one thing? Just one thing before I go?” she asked, her throat thick with tears.

“Anything,” he breathed.

She swallowed. She could hear blood rushing in her ears and the clock ticking in the stillness. She gripped his hands like a lifeline.

“It was all for you,” she said. “My name--Marie Curie. The deed that earned me the title Miss Massacre, the Grande Dame of Death. It was all to please you. To earn your affection.”

Scythe Faraday’s lips were on hers before she could register his movement. They were warm, inviting, and she leaned into him, letting his fingers trace shapes across her arms, over her shoulders, against her neck. When he pulled away, she felt breathless.

“You didn’t need to earn my affection,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “You always had it.”

And then he was kissing her again, and the tears kept coming as though a dam inside of her--one of her own creation--had finally broken. He kissed her tears as she cried and she felt herself pulling apart in the most brilliant agony.

“Let’s forget about the 9th Commandment,” he said. “Will you stay? Just for tonight.”

She nodded, biting her lip.

“What was your name _before_?” she found herself asking as she moved in, pulling his hands to her chest.

“Gerald,” he breathed, then grimaced. “Sorry, it’s just… it’s not me anymore.”

Curie nodded. She ran her fingertips across the back of his hand, down his arm.

“I need to call you something _else_ ,” she continued. “Something that isn’t a title-- _Honorable Scythe Faraday_. Something just for me.”

Faraday stood, pushing his chair out with a grating scrape. She stood to meet him, letting his hands move down her sides, letting them rest gently against the curve of her waist.

“Call me Michael,” he whispered into the skin of her neck. “It was Faraday’s name. And I am more him than--”

“Marie,” she interrupted, the urgency catching her in a moment of need. “Call me Marie.”

And then his hands were slipping underneath her Scythe’s robes, pulling them up and up and sending them in a billowing cloud to the floor. His hands were on her skin as his lips crashed into hers. She leaned against the cool wood of the kitchen table and he paused only to let his own robes fall before claiming her lips again, the heat crashing in waves through her body at the feeling of his skin against hers.

She grabbed at his hair, pulling him in, and he snaked a hand down between her thighs to part her legs.

When he asked permission to make love to her until morning, she responded by wrapping her legs around him and moaning a breathy “Please.” He kissed her again, roughly, hungrily, and then lowered himself into her in a powerful thrust that sent her into outer space.

 

* * *

 

**December 2141 - February 2149**

Sometimes they talked about the 9th Commandment.

It hung over them like an uninvited guest, whispering to them in the night, as they held each other close, that they were wrong, that this was forbidden. The life of a Scythe was meant to be a solitary one. They were meant to dedicate themselves to their craft, to the souls of those they gleaned, and to not allow distractions.

More often, they _didn’t_ talk about the 9th Commandment. They let it be. If they didn’t bother it, they believed it wouldn’t bother them.

They called their relationship a “companionship of convenience”--two Scythes, living together, gleaning together. They each knew the other's life so intimately, their views of the world mutually shaped by the blood they had spilled, that their companionship seemed inevitable.

But Marie could feel in her bones that this was more than companionship. From the very beginning, they had been inexplicably drawn to each other. It wasn’t just a companionship of convenience that they enjoyed; it was a fusing of souls.

And so they built a life together. Marie moved into Michael’s home, bringing with her the only belongings permitted to her as a Scythe: her ring, which granted immunity; her robes; and her gleaning journal. She asked Michael about his _before_ , and he about hers. She read to him from books about philosophy, art, and history. She memorized the constellations of his birthmarks as she pressed her mouth to his acres of pearlescent skin.

She never took him for granted because a part of her always knew it would end. Though they became braver (and perhaps stupider) with every passing year, she could sense that their time was limited. It made her desperate, wild. Because with Michael, it felt like coming home.

When High Blade Xenocrates finally appeared on their doorstep on a blustery January morning, she let him in, all too aware of why he had come.

They were summoned before the Global Conclave on the Island of the Enduring Heart, where Supreme Blade Prometheus would give them their sentence. During the transatlantic flight, as she clung to Michael’s hands and wept, Marie convinced herself they would be stripped of their robes and banished to another region.

Prometheus, however, had other plans:

“You are hereby sentenced to die seven deaths--one for every year of your affair--and remain separated for a period of seventy years.”

The Supreme Blade was nothing if not poetic.

“Your reputation precedes you,” was his response to the look of pure shock on their faces. “Both of you. You are far too important to the Scythedom to be removed from your positions.”

Their deaths were carried out on the Island of the Endura, in front of the entire World Scythe Council. Marie would never forget gazing out the window at the rippling waves, at the vastness of the ocean, before she was killed the first time--a swift knife to the heart. She remembered praying that she would be revived without the piece of her that loved Scythe Faraday-- _Michael_. This was her prayer before every death, yet she awoke, time and again, with an ache much deeper than the physical wounds from which she had to recover.

She remembered thinking how this would make her a better Scythe, because now she knew what it meant to lose everything.

 

* * *

 

**9 May 2220**

A lot can happen in 70 years.

Your heart can harden. It can turn from the living. It can become stone.

And then it can crack, slowly, and crumble.

But it can also rise from the ashes like a phoenix.

It can begin beating again even when you thought it had finished.

And when you see Scythe Faraday again, when you can actually stand before him and shake his hand, you can somehow do so without breaking.

You can greet him as a friend and you can smile.

You can keep going.

**Author's Note:**

> The journal entry in italics is the work of Neal Shusterman. This entire story is based on his works, specifically the story Scythe Curie tells of her love affair with Scythe Faraday. I read her side of the story and immediately knew I had to explore it in more depth through fanfiction.
> 
> Last but certainly not least, a HUGE thank you to Kayla (poppunkpadfoot) for reading this in SUPER SPEED and giving me some much needed feedback.


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